Front Page Fatale: The First Ida Bly Thriller

by Daniel Fox

  CHAPTER 18

  Ida’s city-coroner angle had crashed and burned. She hadn't realized Denny Green had disliked her so much, she’d thought they’d been playing at antagonism.

  She tried her contacts inside the L.A.P.D. Some of them were sweet on her, some had coughed up info because she had paid them. But now none of them would even come to the phone to talk to her. Apparently Sergeant George Schuttman, the giant from the crime scene, had laid down the law and had hinted he would take it extra-curricular if someone leaked details from his prize case to the press.

  She supposed she could try the people around the crime scene again. She wasn’t feeling it though – other reporters including the wonderful Bob Tree would have picked them clean. There wouldn’t be anything exclusive there, nothing to get her front-page ink, nothing to get her place back.

  Vincent Bader though. She’d never met him, he was purely the society pages, something Ida had never covered before. Society stuff was just next door to people finding images of Jesus in their Mex food platter. Puff. Garbage. She didn’t care about celebrities unless they were turning up dead or running the city into the ground.

  But now Bader was in on a murder. A big murder. The murder. Her murder.

  She tried the morgue, just walked on in. Denny Green was back, Bader was gone, and she got chased out.

  She was pretty sure Bader practised surgery out of L.A. County Hospital. Rang it – bingo. She got herself transferred to his office. A secretary stopped her cold – he’d been receiving calls from reporters all day. Ida faked pain, claimed she was a patient, this was an emergency, but there was no file on the fake name she gave and the secretary told her that the good doctor wasn’t there, wouldn’t talk to her even if he was, and that she could fuck off, in that order.

  She didn’t like the news that other reporters were trying to sink their claws into her lead. Of course they were, the reason a famous doctor was put on anything was to show off just how hard everybody was working the case. He was bound to get calls. She was surprised he hadn’t called a press conference, said nothing of value out loud and with great pride, and then called it a day.

  She did remember one other thing about Bader – he did that charity work at the loony bin. Camarillo State Mental Hospital. An hour northwest – far enough to hide from the press scrum, close enough if there was a medical emergency that required him to get back to the city fast.

  She made good time. The hospital sprawled out in front of her. It looked like a Spanish mission written on a giant’s scale. Clay-red rooftops over white-washed walls. It looked pleasant from a distance, like a college campus where sweater-wearing boys should be chasing giggling co-eds around the square.

  That impression changed as she got closer. She could make out some of the inmates on the campus’ grass. People in tan jumpsuits shuffling around without direction. Some staring straight up at the sun. Others walking stiff, like maybe their ankles were chained together. She couldn’t be sure from the road.

  It hit her that the Hospital was like the Row inflated – where people not even fit for the pits of the city washed up. This was the bunkhouse for hop-heads, heroin sniffers looking to get well, the retarded, booze-hounds desperate to get dry, unrepentant pedos, the violently insane, people whose brains refused to connect properly with the outside world. If she remembered right they were planning on taking in children this year. Maybe they’d already started. Camarillo State Mental Hospital – over four thousand damaged minds in a pretty cage.

  Closer still – she could pick out bars over the windows.

  She parked, went through the front entrance doors almost at a run – how long until other reporters had the same thought? Or were they already here?

  Two families were crowding the reception desk, talking with the tough-looking gent in a white uniform seated behind the desk. She picked up snatches of the conversation with Family Number One – they wanted to see the husband’s brother but were having trouble getting inside. It didn’t make Ida confident she was going to be able to talk her way in if Family Number One with the two kids with adorable big blue eyes were getting denied the chance to see good old Uncle Mike.

  A door to the left of the reception desk had another big fella dressed in white seated next to it, guarding it – likely the way in to the good stuff. Maybe once upon a long while ago she might have tried flirting her way in – that was before her scar. The scar nixed her flirting chances down to nil, and made her easy to describe to police if things truly went south and she had to skedaddle.

  The first family had finally made a breakthrough and were signing papers on a clipboard. The big guy behind the desk nodded to the big guy by the locked door – let them through.

  The big guy behind the desk turned away to hang the signed clipboard on the wall behind him. The big guy by the door was facing the interior door, unlocking it with a key from a comically large key-ring.

  Now or never. Do it... you’ve got nothing else... go goddammit!

  She went. She darted forward, stepping right up beside the husband and wife duo, pretending to be a part of the family, nodded to the guard/intern/goon as she went through the interior door, just another member of the family, turning her scar away from his gaze.

  She was inside.

  Another reception area. The family sat, probably to wait for Uncle Mike to be escorted in for his visit. Corridors stretched off north, south, and west with no signs to indicate administration or offices. It seemed like a good way to keep looky-loos from wandering around – keep it a mystery whether they were heading into the cafeteria or into a dormitory full of child rapists.

  Ida chose south. She made out what looked to be a working barn of some kind out the barred windows. Cute ponies were prancing around, making the inmates out there laugh and clap their hands. Jesus – this place was nicer than her own home. She never had ponies growing up. Staff probably made all the meals for the inmates, did all the cleaning. If it wasn’t for the violent nuts she’d consider moving in.

  She passed a heavy metal door with a grate at viewing height. She skidded to a stop, looked in.

  A women’s dormitory, stuffed to overcapacity. It was long, more barred windows along one side, a bed every couple of feet along the two lengthwise walls. Every single bed had a woman in it, now, in the middle of the day, more than one of them strapped down. The beds were so close together you’d have to turn sideways to be able to squeeze out to the clear runway space between the two lines of beds. Except the clear runway wasn’t clear – there was a chair every couple of feet, and every single one of the chairs had a woman seated on it as well.

  It was the noise of it, the cacophony, that hit her hardest. Some of the women screeched, some pulled on their hair, some hit themselves in the head with the palm of their hand over and over. Some muttered, stuck in a loop of a conversation they had with a loved-one twenty years ago and had never stopped having. Others sat immobile, completely quiet, seemingly immune to the noise, maybe doped to oblivion. She hoped so for their sake, she’d need to be doped out of her gourd too if she had to try to survive living like that.

  Footsteps back in the direction she had come from got her moving again. She passed into what she first thought were bathing rooms – metal tubs on the floor spaced every couple of feet. Except the tubs had manacles attached to the sides.

  Further still – operating rooms. Tables with straps, electrical devices on wheeled stands positioned near the heads of the tables.

  She made it to the end of the line of the southern branch – doors led outside to the grounds. No admin offices. No Doctor Vincent Bader. She backtracked, ducked into a custodial supply closet as a pair of staff marched by talking about the size of the tits on one of the patients. She kept to the far side of the corridor as she passed the metal door of the woman’s dorm she had passed earlier. She couldn’t see in this time, but it didn’t do anything to keep her from having to endure the birdhouse riot sounds.

  She made the inner reception room.
The family was gone, hopefully off having a nice visit with good old Uncle Mikey. She chose west.

  She moved slower this time, more cautious. A woman’s dorm was probably the best she could hope for in this place. It would be just her luck to mosey into the middle of a dorm full of violent rapists.

  She passed a massive kitchen, passive women with hairnets stirring whatever in oversized pots.

  This was looking more promising – offices down a side-corridor.

  The first offices were pure civilian admin – accounting, some kind of filing room. Ida moved past them quickly, making herself look like she had a purpose and was supposed to be there, hoping not to draw attention from the people working inside.

  Another turn and the hall ended at a secretary’s desk. An older woman, grey hair, scowling at her typewriter. Ranged around her were doors to inner offices, plus one more door that looked like it led directly outside to the grounds. The offices looked fancier than the other staff rooms Ida had passed. The dens of V.I.P.s. If Doctor Bader even had an office here, it would probably be one of these.

  She went with the idea of looking like she had a purpose. A legitimate reason to be there. She did have a purpose of her own – to not lose the front page to a bum like Bob Tree, but that wasn’t likely to fly with the Iron Maiden who was now given her the stink-eye from under an arched grey eyebrow.

  “May I help you?”

  “Ida Bly from the L.A. Clarion. I have an appointment with Doctor Bader.”

  The battle-axe swivelled in her chair. The look she gave Ida indicated that she already wasn’t buying it. She ran her finger down an appointment book. “I don’t have an Ida Bly listed.”

  Strike One. On the plus side, she hadn’t started off by saying that Doctor Bader wasn’t there at the moment.

  “Made the appointment two weeks ago, ma’am.”

  “I make all the appointments for the doctors.”

  “Then it must have been you I talked with. I’m going to go over the good doctor’s future charity gigs, fundraising events, all that good stuff.”

  “All available on the Hospital’s social events calendar which is sent out to the major newspapers once a month.”

  “True, and God bless you for your hard work. This piece is more of a portrait, get to know the man behind the social pages pictures. Why he does what he does, why he gives so much of his time, why-”

  “Why he’s been assigned to the big murder in Los Angeles?”

  Rumbled. Ida walked past the secretary’s desk, started opening office doors, revealing startled and pissed off doctors at their desks.

  “Stop that!”

  Ida ignored her. Tried another door. A doctor was helping a pretty young female patient get her jumpsuit back on. “Jesus.”

  She tried another door.

  The secretary jammed her thumb down on an intercom switch. “Security! Patient on the loose, acquired outside clothing, she’s attempting to assault the doctors.”

  “Patient?” Ida tries another door. “I told you, I’m press. You know I’m press.”

  “I know you’re manic.”

  Ida dug in her bag, pulled out her I.D. “I’ve got credentials ya old bag!”

  Three doors left. She went for the first. Heavy footfalls started pounding down the hall from the far end. More than one set.

  “Bader! I’m looking for Doctor Bader!”

  The footfalls, closer. There wasn’t enough time to check the last two office doors. It was time to go.

  Ida slammed through the door that led outside. This part of the grounds was sheltered from the view from the road. The inmates were more crowded here. And they were not sedate, not like the ones that could be seen while driving in.

  All of them looked at her. Mostly men. Three women. Some screamed and pointed at her. Some darted away, terrified.

  Some came for her.

  She ran forward, shrunk back from hands formed into claws. Someone spit on her, it hit her face. She hoped it was spit.

  A hand tangled in her hair. A woman, laughing. Jerked her head back.

  Ida lashed out with a backhand, caught the woman in the nose, made her shriek. The hand jerked away from her head, taking hair with it.

  She ran around the length of the building. Fists pounded at the glass of the barred windows as she passed. She had impressions of round red wet mouths hooting at her, she didn’t want to look.

  Just before she rounded the corner she looked back the way she came. Three security goons were on the chase. And past them, framed by the doorway, was the tall and lean form of a man in a doctor’s smock. Bader? He had his hand on another lean man, not quite so tall, dark hair – in that flash of a moment he reminded Ida of Bob Tree and it enraged her that Tree might have stolen something else from her and there was nothing she could do about it now but run.

  She made the parking lot, got into her car, locked the door as the security guys caught up to her. She revved up and peeled out, making the men jump back to avoid getting clipped by her front fender.

  It took a very long time for her heart to slow down.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Bobby, you got a minute?”

  Bob entered Cliffy’s office, closed the door at Cliffy’s prompting.

  “I haven’t been getting anything on the murder from you.”

  “Honestly, I don’t think there’s much to get. Early days, you know? No I.D. on the girl, or if there is one, the cops are keeping it close. No murder weapon. No witnesses. No nothing. And City Hall is a goddamned mess.”

  “Well there! There’s the story then – innocent dead girl is a hero for exposing L.A.P.D.’s incompetence.”

  “You really want to run it like that?”

  “We don’t have anything else.”

  “The case is getting international exposure. So will anything you say about the police.”

  “We show we’re hard-hitting, international readers keep reading after this case fades away.”

  “The P.D. might not ever forgive the paper for making them look bad to the world.”

  “Bobby! What the hell? This kind of thing would have had you rock hard in your pants back in the day. You’re not supposed to be fighting me, you’re supposed to be fighting them.”

  Bob held up his hands. “Mea culpa boss. Guess I’ve just become a little more wary about the fights I pick.” He smiled, rubbed his hand over his belly where the Jap 7.7mm bullet shrapnel had penetrated him.

  Cliffy’s eyes narrowed. “Did you just try to emotionally manipulate me?”

  “Did it work?”

  They stared at each other, then broke off laughing.

  “Asshole.”

  “Tyrant.”

  “Guilty as charged. My point still stands. The world’s watching this thing but we’re just standing here with our mouths hanging open.” Cliffy rubbed his jaw. “Alright, I think we can stretch the ‘who is this girl’ angle a day or two more. Public pleas to come forward with an I.D., assist the police, yadda yadda. But if we don’t get some fresh ink on this soon-”

  “Speaking of fresh-”

  “You’re not about to talk to me about a missing detective, are you? With a major murder case rolling on around us?”

  “I’ll uh... I’ll try to get in touch with this Doctor Bader guy, one who did the autopsy.”

  “’Celeb philanthropist surgeon brought in on case.’ Beautiful. Maybe that handsome celeb face of yours can get through where others couldn’t.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Cliffy pointed finger pistols. Bob shot a pair back. Bob exited the office and made it all the way to a stall in the men’s room before he bent over wheezing, wiping sweat from his face with his forearm. He thought he could hold it off, but he wheeled around and vomited into the bowl.

  The war was still clinging to him. When was he going to be able to get clear?

  ***

  “Sergeant, got a hot one for you.”

  The uniform put a brown paper bag on George’s desk. G
eorge looked inside - a small pair of women’s medium-heel shoes. George didn’t know shoes, but these looked decent, upscale. The still-unidentified victim had small feet. This pair might fit. They were black, scuffed, dirty, and stained with something that could very well be blood.

  “Where’d you get these?”

  “Guy on Skid Row called in a tip, said he saw one of his neighbours with them. Why’s a man got a pair of small women’s shoes, right? Our guy, he’s got this shack away from everyone else out back of a mechanic’s, we find him in there, get this, jerking off on them.”

  George stood. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The uniform, George couldn’t remember his name, shrugged. “We thought it was going to be False Alarm Number Three-hundred-and-twelve or whatever we’re up to. We didn’t expect nothing to come of it.”

  George eyed the officer a moment, wondering if they didn’t expect anything to come of calling George to the scene.

  He shrugged it off. He handed the bag and its contents back to the officer. “Get these down to Pinker. Have him test it against the vic’s blood type.”

  “You bet, hoss.”

  “And our guy?”

  “Already in interrogation.”

  George hot-footed it. He got to interrogation, found a crowd of detectives at the doorway. Reporters were trying to weasel their way in for a viewing, but the detectives were keeping them back. The lot of them parted for George.

  He found A.C. Pointe inside, looking through the window of one of the interrogation rooms.

  Inside the room: a spectre. A filthy man, fantastically pale skin under the grime. George wondered how he managed to dodge a tan being homeless. Long grimy brown and grey hair. Denim jacket, frayed holes at the elbows.

  He had denigrated the victim just by touching her shoes, never mind what he had been caught actually doing with them.

  A monster who had killed a girl. He seemed to be filling the interrogation room with his presence, George half-ways expected the walls to bow outwards from the pressure. George could feel him from here.